Hamlet (22nd August 2015, 1.30pm)

Perhaps the greatest test of one of the world’s most famous actors, playing one of the world’s most famous characters, is whether he can convince you he is not Benedict Cumberbatch, but Hamlet. At no point did I see him as Benedict; he was only ever the great Dane...

It’s the fourth time I’ve seen the play, but the first time I’ve properly understood it. I don’t mean plot, which is easy to pick up, but Hamlet’s journey through it. I completely got his emotional state and felt like I was with him all the way. A lot to do with great acting, but also the way they structured the performance meant it was told very much through Hamlet’s eyes.

The play, as written (and usually performed), begins with guards on the battlements seeing the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Then it cuts to a big banquet scene in which we first meet Hamlet; at the end of this the guards tell Hamlet about the ghost and he goes to see it. But in this performance, the curtains open to reveal Hamlet in his room. It starts with him being told about the ghost, then the banquet, then Hamlet goes and sees the ghost. This means that the first time the audience sees the ghost is as Hamlet sees it. We see it all through his eyes.

Likewise, the ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy has been moved to a much earlier place. When Hamlet decides to act mad, marching around like a toy soldier (complete with giant toy castle) he also has a belt around his neck and contemplates suicide with it. This is where ‘To be or not to be’ is spoken, and it therefore becomes Hamlet’s contemplation of suicide. He could end it all now and save himself from what is to come.

The soliloquies were brought to life superbly. As Hamlet starts a soliloquy, video projections turn the set into an old ruin, and all the other actors go into super slow motion as a spotlight picks out Hamlet, meaning that the soliloquies are very much his thoughts speeding through his head in a split second as life around him carries on as normal. Done in the wrong way, this could have been laughable, but here it had an almost filmic quality, allowing us into Hamlet’s inner-most thoughts. And the delivery of the soliloquies was crystal clear and added so much depth to events.

The set was impressive. As the curtains rose, Hamlet was at the front of the stage, with a wall directly behind him. At the end of his introductory scene, the wall lifted to reveal the biggest, widest set I have ever seen by a long way. Beside me, my mother mouthed ‘Bloody hell!’. It was a grand stately entrance hall with a full staircase, balconies and huge doors maybe 10 times human height. At the end of the first half, Claudius reveals to the audience his plan for Hamlet to be killed.

At the climax of this speech, through every door and window a whirlwind of black debris fires, swirling around Claudius as he walked away, and covering the entire stage. Dramatic stuff! When the curtains lift for the second half, the whole set is thick with dirt and earth, including a pile of dirt towering up in between the two main doors. At first this was used to show Hamlet’s journey through war zones, but it then came to symbolise the downfall of the stately household, as the actors all climbed and crawled around the dirt.

Despite all the focus being on Benedict Cumberbatch, and 40% of the lines belonging to him, it really felt like an ensemble performance, as the rest of the cast were so strong. Each had their own moments and the way they interacted gave such an insight into their characters.

The moment when Claudius prays and expresses his regrets about killing Hamlet’s father and marrying his wife was subtly underplayed, making this ‘evil’ character three-dimensional. The moment when the Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, chooses to walk away from Claudius and an uncertain look lingers between them clearly showed how much she understands what is going on. Gertrude has a powerful understanding of Ophelia too; this is not in the text, it was implied entirely by silent action.

This led to one of the most powerful moments in the performance. Ophelia, now mad, is playing slow chords on the piano. She closes the piano lid, but the piano continues to play hauntingly. Ophelia looks at Gertrude, alone on the other side of the stage, then stumbles up a pile of rubble and slowly exits to her death. We watch this with Gertrude as the music soars. It was a spine tingling moment.

The actor playing the ghost of Hamlet’s father sometimes doubles as Claudius, sometimes as the player king. In this performance, the ghost doubled as the grave digger. This was an excellent decision. The ghost was hauntingly raw and powerful, but the grave digger was sweet and simple and hilarious because of this. The grave scene is a pivotal one for Hamlet; he holds of skull of poor Yorick and finally accepts whatever his fate may be. The doubling of grave digger and ghost really highlights this moment and adds power to Hamlet’s realisation.

The most powerful connection for me was between one of Hamlet’s soliloquies and a small moment at the end with Claudius. Hamlet is furious with himself – the actors he employs produce such huge emotion and anger that they could surely take revenge on their enemy, and yet their emotions are not real, but acted. Yet Hamlet’s emotions and desire for revenge are real and immense, but he has not followed through. He asks himself why. Is he is a coward? ... Then, at the end, when Hamlet is fatally stabbed, then Laertes, and then Gertrude drinks poison, Claudius tries to flee up a flight of stairs, before his is dragged down and killed. It is Claudius who is the coward, not Hamlet.

It was an unforgettable experience. Not least because I was sitting in row A (the perfect place for me!). I felt a palpable, excited silence behind me throughout much of the performance. Of course, Benedict Cumberbatch was always going to get a full standing ovation at the end. But it absolutely felt like his performance, and the performance as a whole, fully deserved it.

I think what made my day, though, happened before the play, as we were arriving at the Barbican. A girl walked past us, shock on her face, and with a mix of astonishment and joy, breathlessly said to her waiting friend: ‘Matilda, I’ve got us tickets!’ Her excitement was wonderful.

After 'only' writing children's books for 7 years, I am reclaiming the word 'simple'

I like the word simple. Some of my most powerful and moving experiences watching theatre, for example, have been so precisely because the idea behind them is simple, yet beautifully used ... because the language contains such clarity that it allows my imagination to build on it and make it personal to me.

As a children's author, I often hear that children's books are simple. But 'simple' seems to hold a different, more loaded meaning. It seems to imply that children's books are easy to write, easy to read. That children's books are somehow 'lesser', not worthy of great praise; that they even commit the sin of 'talking down' to readers. Put simply, the word simple is used to express a negative attitude towards children's books. This is an attitude I entirely disagree with, but one that I hope is based on misunderstanding. In this blog, I will therefore explain why I want to reclaim the world 'simple', as clearly - as simply - as possible.

Context (and chocolate)

My argument is entirely contextually bound, and as such will focus on my own small corner of the world of children's books.

Firstly, I should explain my general stance on literature. Bear with me. Some believe that Shakespeare is infinitely better than Jacqueline Wilson ... that Jane Austin is 'good' and Enid Blyton is 'bad' ... that people who prefer the latter are intellectually lesser beings. I believe authors, books and readers should not be judged in this way. What matters is the contexts in which the works are written and read, and how appropriate they are for such contexts. 

I do not judge The Story of Tracy Beaker as lesser than Hamlet - as a cheap chocolate bar to Shakespeare's 'Filet de Boeuf Sauce au Poivre'. Instead, I see the two as different, with different functions for different people. One may be a chocolate bar, one a piece of fruit, but which is which depends on the reader. One person may find only entertainment in the Bard's masterpiece, but something nourishing and life changing in Wilson's, or vice versa. For some readers, one or both writers may offer apples covered in chocolate, as it were. Appropriateness is king, context its castle.

A demonstration: my own children's books are designed to fit into the context of my school visits, in which I aim to excite children about reading. These children cover the whole spectrum, from those already confident and who enjoy reading, to those who have never finished a book and find the experience difficult or boring. My books reflect this. They have action-packed plots, relatable characters, chapters often ending in cliff hangers and language that is engaging yet simple (NOT in a derogatory sense, more on which later). If I was trying to write profound works of deep literature I would be failing miserably, but equally if I did write great literary works, they would be completely inappropriate for the context outlined above. The same as if I wrote chick-flicks or books about accountancy.

None of this is to suggest I am amazing at writing my books, or equally that I couldn't write a book to satisfy those seeking profound literature (or chick-flicks, or accountancy guides). That's irrelevant. I have a job to do and I try my damnedest to do it well.

As to the contexts in which the books are read, I cannot really comment. However, if I have done my job properly, 7-11 year old readers both confident and reluctant will, on the whole, find something to engage with in my books.

Keep It Simple Stupid (plot)

Writing within the above context, many limitations are imposed on me. The story must fit inside a familiar structure and not exceed around 30,000 words, with chapters on the whole no more than 1500 words long. Then there's the aforementioned relatable characters, action-packed plots and cliff hangers. People who pass children's books off as 'simple' may assume that such limitations make my stories predictable, the writing of them straightforward and uncreative. Far from it. In fact, such limitations are hugely creatively challenging. The greater the limits in place, the more challenging it is to find solutions to fit them. I sometimes think of myself as a detective searching for clues within the limitations as to how I can forge new and engaging routes between them. 

A small example of how simplifying a plot within limitations can lead to greater depth and clarity: When I was writing Felix Dashwood and the Traitor's Revenge, my editor questioned three separate elements...

• There was a crystal ball being used to remotely track and control people
• There was a mysterious white mist that physically captured people and took them to the baddie
• The baddie had a ghost sidekick with no defined reason for being there

My editor told me that she was confused by the different uses of the crystal ball and the white mist, and unsure what the sidekick's purpose was. I had to solve this, but I had no extra words to use and didn't want to get bogged down in exposition. Could I find a way to simplify the three problems by combining them? I struck on the idea that... 

• The white mist is the swirling stuff inside a crystal ball
• When inside, it remotely tracks people but when set free it actually physically captures them
• The sidekick is an inventor who discovered that this can happen, and the only person able to control the mist

Simple, when you think of it. Took me a while!

KISS (language)

Using simple language is lazy and talks down to children. A common but misinformed assumption. Certainly, this assumption may hold true if such language is inappropriately used. But then, consider the opening sentence of the classic, The Water Babies:

'Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom. This is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not have much trouble remembering it.'

By modern standards this seems patronising, but was not considered so at the time of writing (1865). What is appropriate changes across time as well as immediate contexts.

Back to my own context. I do not want children to have to spend time deciphering complex metaphors or trying to pronounce and understand words they have never read before, when they should be engaging with the characters and story. I do not mean that such language is off limits, but rather that there is a time and a place. I did not always understand this. 

For example, in the first draft of my first book, Stormy Cliff, I wrote that a minor character stood 'like a statue with a nervous disposition'. At the time, I thought it was a clever description, but to be honest not even I fully get what the heck that means, so how did I ever expect a reluctant child to? I now read that description and cringe at its inappropriateness. Today I would write that he stood 'hunched over and tense'; if the moment called for a simile I might say he was 'hunched over like a question mark', or compare his position to that of 'a dog about to be told off'. Language that neatly allows readers to picture his position.

So, simplicity of language is another huge limitation. And is therefore immensely creatively challenging. The fewer the words there are to play with, the greater the challenge. I have recently written a book for 5-7 year olds, Albert and the Blubber Monster. It is limited to a maximum of only 5000 words. ONLY - another word often used to put such books down. In my experience, these 5000 words have been some of the most challenging to write. I spent more time and brain power on them than on those in my books for older children, and far more than on any essay I wrote at university. 

Albert and the Blubber Monster had to be just as action-packed - more so, in some cases - as my older books, but I had to achieve this with far, far less. Not only did every word have to make sense, every word had to engage, every word had to add something to the story. With such a reduced word count, a high proportion of these words had to take on more than one function, things like alliteration and onomatopoeia became vitally important, and repetition was incredibly hard to avoid. It was agony, wonderful creative agony. 

Here's a shortened extract from Albert and the Blubber Monster. With my editor, I spent a long time trying to make this as disgusting as possible:

'Albert jumped off, wiped his face and felt the snot smear all over him.

     "Gross! Monster bogeys!"

     ... The liquid plopped from the monster's finger and formed a puddle on the bed.

     ... Ernie stepped forwards slowly, staring at the ring. His left foot slipped in the snot puddle. Splat! He landed right in it.'

If I do my job well, these simple, accessible words allow children to create strong, powerful images in their minds. Far more powerful than struggling to picture what a statue with a nervous disposition looks like. And the stronger the images that children are able to conjure up in their minds, the greater their sense of achievement, the more they engage and, over time, the more even the most reluctant children realise just how creative they can be. Simple words, when used effectively, empower. 

So, yes

I only write children's books. It has turned into my job and I believe it is an important one. And yes, I put a great deal of thought and care into using simple, accessible language. It shows I'm trying to do my job properly. I don't always get it right, but I'm trying, and day-on-day I get better at it. No, not better - more appropriate. And I'm proud of that.

The 4 things I love most in theatre

This week I have seen 3 plays, and they have really made me think about why I love theatre, and what makes me fall in love with certain shows.

• On Tuesday, An Oak Tree (2 actors; 1 is the writer, the other is a random actor who has never seen or read the play before. You only find out who this will be on the night. And on this night, it just so happened to be my favourite actor, John Heffernan - purfick!)

• On Wednesday, Everyman

• On Friday, Constellations

And these are the 4 things I love most in theatre:

1. Simplicity. Where a performance uses a simple premise beautifully, allowing me to plug directly into its emotions. It's why Samuel Beckett is my favourite playwright - forget your intellect, he plays directly on your nerves (see separate blog post here). Also, Once the Musical; Constellations
2. Where every aspect works together to form a perfect piece of theatre. Matilda the Musical, London Road, Frankenstein, The Nether, Everyman, Constellations. Where the writing, music, acting, choreography, directing, set and costumes all sing as one!
3. Where a performance divides critics. I love a play that gets just as many negative as positive reviews. Port, 2071. My favourite being Edward II, which got 5* and 1*. That showed it was meeting its aims and doing something radical and fresh (see separate blog post here). I don't think I've ever been so excited in a theatre.
4. Performances that foreground the fact they are a performance. Edward II, An Oak Tree, the work of Daniel Kitson (Analog.ue, Tree, which both fit into category 1 too), the work of 1927 (The Animals and Children Took To The Street, Golem, which also fit into category 2). My favourite singer is Glen Hansard: he tears his heart out performing his songs, but in the middle of this will also ask for the mic to be turned up, will interact with the audience and bring them into the song, will break a guitar string and fix it while carrying on...

#ThankYouNick

Dear Nick,

I was sitting on the Olivier stage last October, waiting for the third of the thrilling James plays to start - the very last performance I was able to attend with my Entry Pass membership. As I watched the auditorium filling up from this unique position, I reflected on my last few years of theatre going and realised just how fortunate I am to have discovered Entry Pass. Over the last 4 years I have seen over 100 performances at the National Theatre and they have changed my life.

 

Looking back, I could say that what stands out are individual highlights like Edward II, Othello, Curious Incident, London Road, Frankenstein, The Habit of Art. But what really stands out is the range and variety of productions Entry Pass has allowed me to experience. Through Entry Pass I have taken risks and opened my eyes to different way of viewing the world.

 

Without Entry Pass, would I have chosen to see so much Shakespeare? Or Port, Misterman, Collaborators… 13… the poignant Analog.Ue… London Road - to name but a few? No! Yet all of these productions have left me excited. They have made me keen to explore different ways of approaching theatre - and life! Thanks to the 100+ performances I have seen at the NT, I’ve become a much more open minded person, and a happier person.

 

As I walked out of James III last October I decided to head up to the balcony on level 5. I stood there, looking over the London skyline, and felt an emotion I have come to associate with the National Theatre more than with anything else. It felt wonderful to be alive.

 

For that, I thank you.

 

Luke Temple